Nothing Serious

by Daniel Klein

  Considering that Phil Weinstein spent upward of $300,000 on the ceremony and reception at the Palo Alto Hills Country Club, the entire bash is surprisingly tasteful. Recognition is paid to the Christian tradition, the Muslim tradition, and to Phil. During the dancing portion of the festivities, Digby sees Sylvie motioning to him; she pantomimes that she wants him to dance with her mother. This is one waltz that Digby would prefer to sit out. It puts him in mind of the Leonard Cohen lyric, “Take this waltz/With its very own breath of brandy and Death.” But this, of all evenings, is one to fulfill one’s offspring’s every desire, so he asks Fanny for the traditional twirl and that they do. Digby strains to make light conversation, but Fanny is as dour and tight-assed as when she had been married to him. As a sign of Digby’s new maturity, he does not experience even a scintilla of schadenfreude with this observation.

  On the flight back, Digby reads selections of The Lost Love Letters of Héloïse and Abélard for clues to the medieval conception of a woman’s love, but once again panic forces him to cut short his studies. It is Héloïse’s uncle’s precipitous castration of Abélard that causes Digby to slam his book shut this time.

  Only four days after he departed Louden, Digby returns to discover that Associate Dean June MacLane has begat Reuben Jr. The baby had arrived a full week earlier than expected, but was in mint condition, meriting a ‘9’ on the Apgar Scale—very pink, excellent pulse rate, reflexes, muscle tone, and respiration, not to mention the requisite number of fingers and toes. Both Mary and Ada were in attendance. From June’s arrival at Copley Hospital in Morristown, Vermont to Reuben’s emergence, fewer than five hours elapsed. June took him in her arms for a few moments, then Mary for several minutes. A nurse fed little Reuben with a bottle. On campus later that day, Ada was reportedly seen in a laser-cut minidress handing out cigars.

  Reuben Jr. came home the next morning, and mother and child set off for Rockport early the following day, only a few hours before Digby’s arrival back in town. He was told that a good number of Mary’s parishioners had appeared for her send-off. They applauded when she stepped out of the church door with her baby in her arms.

  “Hi. Congratulations!” This seems to be Digby’s regular greeting these days.

  He has waited a full day before phoning Mary in Rockport. This is not so much out of deference to Mary’s busy new life as that it took him a full day to attain a certain lightness of being necessary for this call, to try again to be the one person in Mary’s life who does not take everything so damned seriously. Actually, Digby has only reached the perimeter of bearable lightness, but he thinks this is as close as he is going to get.

  “Hello, Digby. How was the wedding?” Digby hears some mewls and hiccoughs as a kind of musical ornament under her voice. He pictures Mary cradling little Reuben in one arm as she speaks.

  “Very nice, actually,” he says. “But what’s this? I turn my back and you abscond with your son.”

  This is not what Digby intended to say. Not even close. In fact, he had repeatedly rehearsed the line, “So, is everything terrific out there?” A cheery, upbeat line, not the guilt-mongering downer that came out of his mouth.

  “I just needed to start everything new all at one time,” Mary says.

  “So, is everything terrific out there?” There, he said it.

  “Well, hectic and terrific,” Mary says.

  “I bet. Is there any way I can be helpful?”

  “Not right now, Digby. I just have to find a rhythm, you know.”

  “Of course.” Digby is sinking fast. But before his head goes under, he blurts out, “I have some really funny stories to tell you, Mary.”

  The pathetic last words of a drowning man.

  “Hey, I need to warm Ruby’s bottle now,” Mary says. “Thank you so much for calling, Digby.”

  Bubble, bubble, gurgle, gurgle.

  Remarkably, downcast as Digby is as he hangs up, he remains convinced that he and Mary are meant for one another. One reason for this may be that he detected a faint vibration coming over the phone line from Rockport, a vibe that Mary had tried her best to hide because she believed it was utterly unfair to ask of him. That vibe said, Wait for me to be ready for you, Digby. Please.

  CHAPTER 23

  Although Digby has been preoccupied with the concept of ‘love’ on all fronts of his life, he did not have a clue to what was coming to pass between Attorney Robert Baskerton and the Widow Hastings. He was certainly the last on his staff to realize that Baskerton was wooing Felicia, apparently wooing her with an old fashioned M.O.: sending her bouquets, taking her out to dinners in upscale Burlington restaurants, and—Digby’s favorite—sitting across from her in her Victorian salon and reading aloud from Robert Browning and Wilfred Owen. Only a handful of local people were invited to their wedding, which took place a mere four weeks after LeFevre’s departure. Digby was not among them.

  Digby honestly believes that for Baskerton this is the fulfillment of a long-nurtured dream. It is love, the genuine article—that is, depending on which philosopher of love one happens to be reading. Yet many Louden people now believe that Baskerton is as much an opportunist as the handsome suitor who preceded him. Not long after his wedding, Baskerton incorporated Cogito as a for-profit enterprise, naming himself and Felicia as co-executive publishers. Digby received this news in a mass email—apparently Baskerton’s grandson had helped the old man buy a computer and set up an email account.

  But it is not Baskerton, his bride, or even Cogito magazine that preys on Digby’s mind this morning; what does there prey is Dr. Aaron Epstein, his former psychotherapist. Epstein had a starring role in Digby’s dream last night and, although the Byzantine plot of the dream is now murky, Digby remembers seeing Epstein’s leonine head and tender eyes gazing out at him from his dreamwork television set at one point. Epstein apparently had his own show called, Just Wondering. Viewers called in asking him questions about what they should do—with their children, their spouses, their jobs, their lives.

  As it happens, Digby still remembers Epstein’s office phone number from twenty-odd years ago, not that surprising considering that there was a period in Digby’s life when he called Epstein frequently at exactly five minutes to the hour—when the doctor was between sessions—to ask some pressing question like if the doctor thought it would be bad for Digby’s self-esteem if he deliberately got himself fired from Food Stylist magazine and went on unemployment insurance. (“Yes, it would.”)

  Digby now dials that number and a woman answers.

  “I’m looking for Dr. Aaron Epstein, the therapist,” Digby says to her.

  “Oh, dear me,” the woman says.

  “He has an office on Central Park West,” Digby says.

  “He did. For thirty-eight years.”

  “And now?”

  “And now he doesn’t,” the woman says.

  “Is he—?”

  “He’s here. In the living room. Watching television in the middle of the morning.”

  “Do you think I could speak with him?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Maxwell. Digby Maxwell. I was a patient of Dr. Epstein. I doubt he will remember me.”

  “Who knows what Aaron remembers?” the woman says. “Wait a minute, Mr. Maxwell.”

  Digby hears a muffled conference in the background and then the unmistakable voice of Dr. Aaron Epstein.

  “Of course, I remember you, Maxwell,” he says. “You’re the dirty writer.”

  Yes, indeed; what Aaron Epstein obviously remembers is Digby’s Voice article about picking up bedmates at his group therapy sessions, the article that marked the end of Digby’s tenure as his patient. Clearly, it made a lasting impression on Epstein, albeit a repugnant one. But Digby soldiers on.

  “I had a dream about you last night,” Digby says.

  Epstein laughs. “So you decided to call me up after twenty years to see if I’m still alive.”

  “Well, that’s not the only reason,” Digby says. “
But it is a good start. Your still being alive, that is.”

  “Actually, I was sure you would be dead by now, Maxwell,” Epstein says.

  Digby finds Epstein’s remark disquieting to say the least, so much so that he feels his pulse rate accelerate into the high stress zone. It occurs to Digby that Epstein is actually trying to induce in him a heart attack—a telephonic, psychokinetic murder as payback for his “Group Sex” piece.

  “How did you think I’d croak?” Digby asks.

  “I hadn’t gotten that far,” Epstein says. “Maybe choking on your own spleen.”

  “Jesus, it was just a dumb article, Doctor!” Digby cries out, his inner child—the one with whom Epstein, two decades earlier, had urged Digby to become reacquainted—bursting forth.

  “It wasn’t dumb at all,” Epstein says. “It was smart and, worse, it was true. I was running a dating service. Maybe even a whorehouse. A fucking whore—”

  Digby now hears what sounds like a children’s scuffle at the other end of the line, the woman who answered the phone clamoring, “Aaron, please!” and “You don’t know what you’re saying!” A few moments later, Epstein is back on the phone.

  “Miriam wants me to tell you that I have a condition,” Epstein says calmly. “It’s called Giddy Disinhibition Disorder, if you can believe that. GDD in the diagnostic manual. It means I tell the truth. It comes right out of my mouth, unvarnished, shmutz and all. I can’t stop it. It’s a kind of Tourette’s syndrome for seniors. They want me to take pills for it, but I don’t want to.”

  “I’m actually glad to hear that,” Digby says. “Because that’s why I called. I need some truth. The pure stuff.”

  “About what?”

  “You probably don’t remember, but you once told me my basic problem was that I didn’t take anything seriously enough. My life, everything.”

  Dr. Epstein starts to laugh, at first softly, but it gradually expands to a wheezy cackle.

  “What’s so funny?” Digby asks.

  “I was full of shit,” Epstein manages to say after catching his breath. “It’s all a joke, Maxwell. A real whopper. Nothing adds up to anything. Do you hear me?”

  With that, either Aaron or Miriam Epstein hangs up the phone.

  CHAPTER 24

  Digby Maxwell is strolling through the Louden College campus toting an Uncommon Grounds recyclable paper bag containing a double latte and a corn muffin. The sun is bright, the air crisp and clear. It is final exam time at the college and some students are sitting in groups of two and three under the full-leafed maple trees, books open, pens and notebooks out. It strikes Digby that a calm earnestness now pervades the campus. Is it because of the exams? The proximity of summer vacation and the sentimental farewells that will precede it? Or has a gentle serious-mindedness gradually descended here as a result of President Herker’s bizarre, piggyback anagnorisis on the Administration Building patio?

  Although he had intended to bring his coffee and snack back to his office as a little pick-me-up before his staff meeting, Digby sits himself down on a quad bench, removes his latte, and takes a few leisurely sips. Aaron Epstein’s Giddy Disinhibition Disorder and especially his final bit of unvarnished truth-telling have been knocking about in Digby’s mind since their conversation a couple of days ago. Epstein has a ‘condition,’ according to his wife. What condition would that be—the human one?

  And what is Digby’s own condition these days? Retrograde Adolescent Infatuation Disorder? Is there a pill for that? If so, does he want to take it? Digby certainly understands why Aaron Epstein does not want to take a pill to cure his condition—because Epstein is his condition. Telling the ‘shmutzy’ truth as he sees it defines who he is at this time, so taking a pill would be tantamount to opting to become a different person. That—becoming a different person—has finally lost its appeal to Digby.

  But what about the ‘It’s all a joke’ thing? Digby happens to be somewhat of an expert on jokes, even, he might say, a connoisseur of them: Irish jokes, Jewish jokes, Scandinavian ‘Ole and Lena’ jokes, even Hindi ‘Stupid Sadar’ jokes via Asim. He knows their optimum structure, the value of broad-stroke character development and narrative detail in the setups of the best of them. And God knows, Digby can grasp the setup Epstein is referring to in that ‘All.’ It is the punch line that eludes him.

  No, Digby thinks, biting into his corn muffin, it is worse than that. It is his own individual setup that is now absent, what the philosopher Edmund Husserl would call his Weltanschauung. The universe, the world, his life—none of them seems all that funny to him these days. He is losing both his cosmic and comic perspectives on himself because he is finding it increasingly difficult to see himself as just another object out there in the cosmos connected to nothing.

  The golden couple, Felicia and Robert, are already in Digby’s office by the time he returns, but, thankfully, Bonner’s old oak chair—Digby’s old oak chair—remains vacant and awaits him. He is also grateful that he finished his snack and tossed his paper bag before returning. His coffee-and-muffin-for-one would have appeared ungracious.

  “I’m afraid no catering this time,” Digby says cheerfully as he sits down. He takes out his folder of article ideas and proposed writers for Cogito’s ‘Love and Sex’ number and makes a fine show of studying it. June, Elliot, and Madeleine file in moments later. That is when Bob Baskerton rises with his own file folder in hand. He smiles at Felicia, then individually at each of them before speaking.

  “I’ve got a little business report for us,” he begins. “And let me tell you, it’s a doozy. As of yesterday at the close of business, we are in our fourth print run of the Heaven Issue, and that’s only for newsstand sales. New subscriptions are already up five hundred percent, and we’re thinking of sending those new folks the Heaven number free as a little gift, so that’ll mean another print run of several thousand copies.”

  Felicia applauds at this point and Madeleine, God bless her, pipes up with a “Bravo!” Even Digby and June do a few claps before Baskerton continues.

  “Those advertising fellas, Saatchi & Saatchi, are beside themselves with enthusiasm,” he says.

  “Beside each other!” Felicia quips.

  By golly, the woman has turned into a wit. Digby is not sure this is a good sign.

  “For the next issue, they have upped their ad buy to ten full pages and six half pages,” Baskerton goes on. “Dewar’s Scotch, BMW automobiles, some resort called Canyon Ranch. The kind of stuff our readers like to buy.”

  Ah yes, our readers, only recently known as consumers of sleaze.

  Baskerton finishes up his report by announcing that Cogito, Inc. is making a sizeable, but tax-deductible, gift to Louden College for the express purpose of adding a three-room, high-ceilinged annex to the president’s residence. “To give Mr. Herker a little stretching room,” Baskerton says, grinning. Baskerton pauses here, apparently expecting a laugh, but if a cute or possibly even naughty double entendre was buried in that ‘stretching room’ phrase, it escapes them all, except, of course, Mrs. Hastings-Baskerton, who titters appreciatively. Digby suspects she heard the line earlier in the day at an informal rehearsal in their breakfast room where she also rehearsed her titter.

  “Okay, Digby,” Baskerton finishes up. “You take it from here. What kind of magic do you have up your sleeve for the ‘Sex’ number?”

  Digby studies his notes for a moment, then looks up and smiles.

  “As usual, I had to do some serious cramming to get up to speed on this one. I’m kind of like these kids you see all over the campus these days cracking their books for the first time a few days before the final exam.”

  This elicits a laugh only slightly louder than the sound of one hand clapping.

  “A lot of people have weighed in on the subject of love,” Digby continues. “From Héloïse to Hugh Hefner, from Merleau-Ponty to Madonna, from Blaise Pascal to Candace Bushnell.”

  All right! Digby is hot, on a tear, his right brain spinning faste
r than a Dyson vacuum cleaner. Attention is being paid.

  “For starters, are there different kinds of love? Is love for a friend different from love for a lover? How about love for a BMW or Dewar’s Scotch?”

  Digby is not clear what his right brain had in mind with this last bit—perhaps it just threw it in for a laugh, but only Elliot Goldenfield is forthcoming with one. The Baskertons, on the other hand, appear singularly unamused. Digby suspects that his left brain needs to engage in a little giddiness inhibiting.

  “Then there is the question of what do love and sex have to do with one another? Let me put that another way—how can you tell if you really are in love or you just have a libidinal itch?”

  Bob Baskerton likes this one, even if Digby does detect some impatience creeping onto his craggy brow.

  “And then, of course, there is the question of defining love,” Digby goes on. Here, he suddenly breaks into song with the line, “ ‘When the stars make you drool just like a pasta fazool, that’s amore.’ . . . Now does that definition do the trick?”

  It is at this point that the uneasy glances and skeptical squints begin. They come at him from all corners of the office. It would seem impossible to ignore them. Yet Digby blithely does.

  “I mean, is Dean Martin any less an authority on ‘amore’ than old Aristotle? Our good friend Rostislav Demidov would say that love denotes no more than a range and pattern of squirts in our endocrine system. But where do you go from there? Come to think of it, where did Rosti go from there once he started to drool like a pasta fazool? Back to Moscow with his heart bleeding in his hands—that’s where he went.”

  Digby would not deny that there was a certain amount of bitterness in his tone in this last line, but he will always contend that it was out of his personal control.

  Madeleine’s uneasy glance morphs into a sneer of contempt, mirroring her emotional transition from concern for Digby’s mental stability to wishing that he would drop dead on the spot.